


All The Small Things

by myuncleownsthistheatre



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, addiction tw, as of after episode 34, i just want the dumbasses to bond, you all gassed me up for that other fic and i went mad with power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24405238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myuncleownsthistheatre/pseuds/myuncleownsthistheatre
Summary: What if I took Glenn casually asking Ron if he'd ever thought about starting a band and turned it into a multi chapter fic. What if I did that.This is by no means a song fic I just retroactively decided to name the whole thing and all the chapters after a Blink 182 song for the sheer merry hell of it.
Relationships: Glenn Close & Nick Close, Glenn Close & Nick Close & Ron Stampler, Glenn Close & Ron Stampler, Ron Stampler/Samantha, hows THAT for a trio
Comments: 41
Kudos: 40





	1. All The Small Things

Ron got fired.

Axed. Let go. Made redundant.

He was an unemployed man, cursed to spend eternity growing in a gnarly five o’clock shadow to the tune of daytime TV intros while the sofa memorized the impression of his MeUndies-clad butt. His brain felt directionless, only half-awake, his consciousness no longer seeing reason to emerge in the chilling absence of efficient office work.

And it had only been two days.

Two days of kissing Samantha goodbye in the morning and then just existing in the empty house with nowhere to go. He wasn’t used to seeing his home without other people in it. From 8am to 6pm the building was a stranger to him, and all he could do was wait for his busy, hardworking family to come home in the afternoon and find his pitiful jobless form shamefully unoccupied, sitting in the same spot he’d been in all day. Where he was right then.

Somewhere, muffled by the sofa cushions, Ron’s phone buzzed, accompanied by an obnoxiously loud ‘ping!’ he’d never figured out how to disable. A few seconds later it pinged again, and again, and again. He ignored it as best as he possibly could, trying to meditate everything out of his mind except the Fresh Prince rerun on the TV screen. Then, as if the texts weren’t enough, the darn thing started ringing. As much as he wanted to win this battle of wits with the little irritation machine, he couldn’t ignore the signature ringtone. The music went from quiet to overwhelmingly noisy as he yanked his phone out from its corduroy prison.

‘Samantha?’ His voice cracked from lack of use, ‘Were you texting me? Is something wrong?’

‘No, no, everything’s fine!’ Samantha’s voice hurried through the speaker and woke Ron up a little bit. What time was it? ‘I wasn’t texting you just now, but, ahh, I think I know who might have been.’ She sounded guilty, but in that sweet way she had where Ron knew whatever she’d done couldn’t have possibly been bad.

‘Who?’

‘Henry Oak texted a couple minutes ago. He said he was a little worried about you because you were ignoring his….8 ball plays?’

Ron huffed.

‘Only cos he always beats me.’

‘Well I might have gone and let slip about the whole… _situation._ I’m sorry, honey, I know you probably wanted to talk about it in your own time.’

‘No, you’re right.’ Even by accident, Samantha had a way of doing the things that Ron thought he _should_ do, but really didn’t want to. ‘I guess I better go, uh.... make the big announcement.’

‘Alright, Ronnie.’ Her voice changed when she smiled, even over the phone. ‘I gotta go, but I’ll see you later, okay? Love you.’

‘Love you too. Bye.’

And she was gone again. And his phone pinged and buzzed again. Reluctantly, Ron opened the group chat and scrolled back a little

[overnight oaks] 

- _@Ron_ , I just heard about your job, are you okay?

-I was wondering where you’d got to!

[da-grill grillson]

-what happened?

[overnight oaks]

-I’ll wait for him to come talk about it himself

[da-grill grillson]

- _@Ron_ what happened?

-is it bad?

[overnight oaks]

-it’s not the end of the world! Just unfortunate :(

[da-grill grillson] 

- _@Ron_ buddy are you dead

Ron’s brow furrowed, but his frown twitched upwards slightly at the same time. He couldn’t deny that it felt good to have friends who actually noticed when something was up. He tapped his phone against his chin a few times before taking a deep breath and mustering a reply.

-I got fired.

_Ping! Ping!_

[da-grill grillson]

-oh that’s rough bud

[overnight oaks]

-how are you feeling?

How _was_ he feeling? It was something like grief, almost. But not for his job, necessarily or even the people there. He was kind of grieving himself. Ron Stampler was a businessman who provided for his family, except for that time when Ron Stampler was a fantastical adventurer who fought battles for his family. So when neither of those things were true anymore… who the hell was Ron Stampler?

All those thoughts didn’t fit nicely in a text bubble though, so he went for something simple. Something that Darryl would understand and Henry would sympathize with. 

-Sad.

_Ping! Ping!_

[overnight oaks]

-oh, I’m sorry, but it’s so good for you to express that!

[da-grill grillson]

-Hey, I have an idea

Unless Darryl had an idea on how to fast-track him into a new job that instantly accepted him to the level he had become accustomed to and everything in his life could slot back into a comforting routine starting tomorrow, Ron doubted he was interested.

[da-grill grillson]

-We should go out!

-How long has it been since we had a guy’s night?

-Come on, take your mind off it

Ron was… slightly interested. He didn’t really _want_ to go anywhere, and it wasn’t that he thought it would make him feel any better, but he was attracted to the idea of being depressed in a bar instead of depressed in his house. Plus it would mean he was out of the house before Samantha came home and saw him and looked at him lovingly and he felt like a total impostor. 

[overnight oaks]

-i’m free tonight, if it’s something you want to do?

Ron idly clicked the thumbs-up react to Henry's message, giving himself a moment to think. He should call Samantha. No, he should make his own decisions, he wasn’t her responsibility. Besides, if he couldn’t be the boss of a small section of office at least maybe he could be the boss of himself. And why shouldn’t he have a guy’s night? He was a guy. Maybe he would actually feel better if he recharged off of… guy energy. Yeah, no. He backtracked on that thought. Anyway it was a concept a little too close to daddy magic for comfort.

Well, what the hell. It’s not like he had work tomorrow.

-Okay

[overnight oaks]

-great!

[da-grill grillson]

-so that’s almost everyone

- _@Glenn_ stop lurking, are you in or not

.

Glenn tossed his phone onto the chair behind him and missed. Whatever was going on, it didn’t seem worth vibrating his pocket at a hundred miles an hour for. He had way more important things to focus on.

In front of him, Nick was hunched over the tattered old drum set, beating out a pretty accomplished rhythm with the intense focus of a beginner just starting to slot everything into place. Despite his expression, he was perfectly on beat, sounding just like a real natural. Glenn couldn’t help but smile. For once, he had absolutely no responsibilities other than to stand here and watch his son make music, and it suited him right down to the ground.

With very little flourish, Nick finished the song and tucked his sticks into the waistband of his jeans.

‘Yo! That was amazing!’ Glenn exclaimed, ‘Not a single mistake that time!’

Nick’s self-conscious smile shone through despite himself, and he rubbed at the soft fuzz of his undercut with the heels of his hands.

‘Thanks.’ He said. He paused. Rubbed his hair again. ‘Glenn?’

‘Yuh huh?’

‘I heard you talking on the phone earlier. What was that all about?’

Shit. He hadn’t been as discreet as he thought he’d been. His memory had a pretty tenuous grasp on the fact that his voice could travel to rooms other than the one he was in at any given time.

‘Oh yeah, that was Andy. Just, y’know band stuff. You know how it is.’

‘It sounded like they kicked you out.’

Glenn’s breath came out in a cough. He looked around the living room to avoid Nick’s eye, staring at the poster of Steve Harris like he was confessing to it.

‘Actually...yeah. The band broke up. But it was all like mutual and cool and stuff, they didn’t just kick me out. I mean you can’t just kick Glenn Close out of the Glenn Close Trio right?’

‘Actually, Scott and Andy playing as a duo under the same name would be pretty fucking cool.’

Goddamn, Nick was right. Glenn hoped his now-ex band members didn’t get the same idea. 

The split had been a long time coming. Over the years playing holiday music together had gotten old and repetitive and kind of draining. Since Glenn’s eventful trip to the Forgotten Realms it just didn’t strike him as particularly important anymore. He knew well that the final nail in the coffin, and the reason Andy had been so mad at him this morning, was that he had been slacking off, pulling back, missing too many rehearsals. Well, he had a good fucking reason: spending time with Nick. And if he didn’t have a band anymore, well, all that really meant was he had even more free time to do just that.

‘I mean, hey, who needs ‘em?’ 

Nick looked unconvinced.

‘Come on, let’s go through that one again.’

As Nick launched back into battering the drums, more energetic now that he was confident in the notes, Glenn rescued his phone from the floor behind him and checked his messages. 

[da-grill grillson]

- _@Glenn_ stop lurking, are you in or not

Oh, shit, Ron had lost his business job thingy. Glenn knew all that office stuff was pretty important to him. Huh. And now Darryl was wrangling everyone into a ‘guy’s night’. 

It was a fun little law of Darryl Wilson that whatever happened he would at least try and make it all better with some kind of activity. Parrot death anniversary? Hike. Broken leg from a hiking incident? Games night. Harrowed return from a traumatic experience in a time-bending fantasy dimension? Nothing like an old fashioned barbecue. If it didn’t fix the problem, it sure as hell delayed dealing with it for a little while.

Nick finished his solo with a flourish, not bothering to mask his smile as he aced it again. Glenn looked delightedly away from his phone, raising his hand for a high five that echoed against the surface of the cymbals. He couldn’t lie, it felt pretty damn good being a dad. 

Without turning his attention from Nick, he tapped ‘send’ with his free hand.

-Quit bugging me. Of course I’m in.

.

The Swan’s Head was an English pub, or at least it tried really hard to be despite the fact that it was clearly a sports bar in California. 

Two bald men smoking by the door raised eyebrows and nudged each other as Ron approached. Ron stared back at them in a way that he really hoped was both threatening and cool as he walked past them and into the noisy, crowded interior. TV screens positioned annoyingly so that they could be seen from almost every angle were showing a soccer player jumping triumphantly around a field, except for one near the back which seemed to be playing footage of the 2011 royal wedding. The air smelled like lager and men, and Ron was seriously contemplating turning around and walking right back out again when he heard his name called out somewhere to his left. 

Just as he’d expected, he was the last to arrive. Henry, Glenn and Darryl were slotted into a booth with a battered-looking table, and all of them were staring at Ron with a combination of relief, concern and amusement. Casually, he slumped into the free seat beside Glenn, who patted him on the shoulder. 

‘Ron!’ He half-shouted as soon as he’d downed the last dregs of his drink, ‘Loving the outfit! You didn’t have to go to work, so you just decided not to get dressed, huh?’

Darryl’s eyebrows were knitted together.

‘Ron, are you just wearing boxers with that?’

Ron glanced down at his ensemble of an old office fundraiser t shirt and underwear, complete with white socks and loafers. 

‘This is what unemployed Ron looks like.’

‘And you’re not afraid of being kicked out?’

‘If it comes to that I’m pretty prepared to argue that these are just shorts.’

Ever since Scam Likely had robbed him of his pants-wearing privileges, Ron’s carefully curated business casual look had been significantly harder to achieve. Deep down he suspected that, despite his best efforts at alternatives, the curse might have had some hand in the loss of his job. Especially paired with the discomfort on his co-worker’s faces whenever he tried to explain the reason for his sudden change in wardrobe. Well, he wasn’t in the office today, so no one could tell him what to wear on his lower half, not even Darryl. Even though he looked like he really wanted to try.

‘We’re just glad you made it out!’ Henry spoke up, placing a hand pointedly on Darryl’s arm before he could argue, ‘This is obviously a big change in your life, you know?’

‘Agh, jobs come and go.’ Glenn added, kind of distractedly. He raised his empty bottle, ‘Who needs ‘em? To free time and… and new directions.’

Darryl’s pint glass and Henry’s ice water joined it.

‘I don’t have anything to clink!’ Ron panicked. Darryl slapped a huge laminated drinks menu in front of him.

‘Let’s change that.’

.

‘Well, I’m getting a little worried!’

‘He’s a grown man, he can take care of himself.’

‘You saw how he was! He’s not in a place of emotional stability right now!’

‘He probably just went home!’

‘I’m calling him again.’

Glenn was barely tuned in to the bickering happening somewhere to his left. The sound system was playing some old familiar song he couldn’t remember the name of, and he was figuring out the chords on an imaginary guitar, fingers moving in thin air as he slouched along the length of the booth seat.He had a lot more foot room since Ron had disappeared. 

Focusing his ears on the music, he blocked out his friends’ conversation entirely, picking out the drum beat under the melody. It was effective but pretty simple, something he was sure Nick would have no problem with. He made a mental note to look the song up the next morning and then casually bring it up with Nick, so that maybe they could take a stab at playing it together. He was itching for a proper jam session and now that Nick had mastered the basics it seemed like he might not be that far away. Now he just had to remember the name of the damn song.

‘Do either of you guys have Shazam?’ he asked.

Henry and Darryl looked back at him blankly. Both of them were sliding out of the booth, backing into the open space of the bar.

‘We were just going to split up and look for Ron.’ Henry explained. Darryl shot Glenn a long-suffering look that made him smile.

‘Alright then.’ He shrugged, ‘I guess I’ll just wait here in case he comes back.’

And then they were gone, and the song had ended before Glenn had remembered the name. He knew there was no chance he’d remember tomorrow morning, hungover as he’d almost certainly be. He could already feel it bugging his future self. 

The spell broken, he sat up a little straighter and tried to look like someone casually reserving a booth for his AWOL friends. He was just fixing to settle back into his thoughts when two excited English men burst in through the front door, shouting about something or other, Glenn couldn’t really understand their accents, especially with the drunken slur. His focus was elsewhere, though, anyway. As the door swung back and forth on its hinges, he swore he caught a glimpse of yellow t-shirt and bare legs, drifting past on the street outside. Normally he would chalk it up to just seeing shit, or even ignore it but, well,

He got up.

He knew their booth was about to get snatched up by a bunch of drunk soccer fans, but he wasn’t really getting the vibe that their ‘guys’ night’ was going to last that much longer anyway. Awkwardly, he pushed past a few gathered people standing between him and the exit, nearly knocked off balance as the alcohol and the heavy swinging door hit him at once. It was a pretty warm night, and the air outside was motionless, but it was still fresher than the air inside and Glenn took a moment just to inhale. The smell of errant cigarette smoke made him antsy.

It took him a few seconds to even remember why he’d come out here, and then he saw it again, the yellow t-shirt over by the waist-high parking lot wall. Sighing, he dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, cupping his hands around his mouth as he walked over to Ron.

‘Hey, man.’ He tried to sound gentle, like he was approaching a scared animal. One look at Ron, though, and he knew he wasn’t really liable to bolt. He just shrugged, accepting being caught like the last player in a low-energy game of hide and seek.

‘Hey.’ He echoed vacantly.

‘You know, the other guys are in there looking for you. They’re pretty worried.’ 

‘I know. I’m fine though.’

Glenn hesitated. He figured he should ask _‘are you?’_ But then, what if he wasn’t? Glenn wasn’t exactly accustomed to being the kind of friend who listened to other people’s feelings, and he was especially intimidated by whatever he might find going on in Ron’s particular psyche. He should’ve just stayed at that booth and minded his business.

‘I mean... _are_ you?’

Ron looked down at the skin he was scratching off around his thumbnail. 

‘Pretty sure.’

‘Hey, and if your version of ‘fine’ looks like standing around outside a bar in your underwear, I respect that, I’ve been there too.’

Glenn pulled himself up onto the wall. A thin layer of broken glass threatened to poke through his jeans and he shifted his weight while Ron did an odd self-conscious spin, arms out, looking down at himself.

‘I’m not sure how to dress this version of Ron yet.’ He admitted, ‘Um. I don’t really know what ‘men’ wear.’

‘What, like you weren’t a man before?’

‘Nuh uh. I was a businessman. Now I’m just a man.’

‘That’s fair.’ Glenn trailed off, exhaling smoke directly upwards into the sky and watching it disappear. Then Ron tried to hop up on the wall next to him.

‘Whoah whoah whoah!’ Glenn waved his hands madly, ‘There’s like a million tiny glass shards on here, dude, you’re gonna cut yourself up!’

A disappointed look came over Ron’s face, replacing whatever openness had been there and Glenn groaned inwardly. The others weren’t with them right now. He had to be the supportive friend. 

‘Agh, fuck it, here.’ Reluctantly, he took off his leather jacket and lay it on the wall beside him. ‘Sit on that.’

And he did. Up close he looked even more depressing, chin stubbly, staring into space. Glenn really had been there before. It was pretty uncomfortable to see it in somebody else.

‘You know, I didn’t tell the others this but…’ Glenn was talking without his own permission, ‘My band broke up the other day. So I do kind of feel you.’

‘Your Christmas band?’ God it sounded so stupid when he said it like _that_.

‘Yeah, my Christmas band! I’ve been playing with that band forever! It was _my_ band!’ His voice came out less sharp and more whiny, and it made him cringe when he heard it echo back. He stubbed out his cigarette on the wall.

‘So it sounds like you’re upset about that.’ Ron observed, vacant like he was reciting from a book.

‘Yeah, I mean, I’m not that upset about the band, they were kinda dicks anyway, and I’m trying to hang out with Nick more.’ Shit, how was this happening? Whether he liked it or not he was supposed to be the one therapizing Ron, not the other way around. Still, he’d started talking and now he couldn’t stop. ‘It’s just like, I’m not in a band anymore. That was always my thing, y’know? I was a frontman. Now I’m just,’ he laughed, ‘Now I’m just a man.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Glenn saw Ron nod slowly.

‘I was a frontman once.’ He mused, ‘I was in a band.’

‘Yeah I was there.’ Glenn scoffed, ‘You almost got me killed.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I mean, only because you were that good, though. You got some real talent, man. You should think about starting a band yourself.’

Ron seemed appeased by this. He actually half-smiled into space, eyes darting like he was dreaming. Glenn’s head swam, coming down off a brief moment of actually using his brain. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. He’d actually started getting up at a half-reasonable time in the mornings, and he was getting genuinely tired. Wait, shit, was he wearing eyeliner? God, it would be halfway down his face-

‘We could start a band.’

‘Huh?’

‘You and me could start a band. We don’t have anything else to do. Both of us lost our things.’ 

Ron looked serious. What’s more, he looked _at_ him. There was more energy in his face than there had been all night, and it was weirdly infectious. For all Glenn had decided being free from rehearsals for a while suited him, even the idea of jumping into another project made him selfishly excited. Ron wasn’t exactly his picture of an ideal bandmate, but maybe his new tumbledown appearance would make Glenn look better by contrast? He wasn’t exactly aging backwards at this point. God, he was really thinking this through now. If only there was some way to involve-

‘We’d need more people I think.’ Ron was counting on his fingers.

‘Nick.’ Glenn spoke without thinking. 

‘Nick?’

Well he’d said it now. Why not commit? If he could wrangle himself into a new band that also involved spending time with his son he’d have to buy himself another drink for somehow managing to tie up his loose ends in one knot.

‘Nick is getting really good on drums. That’s all we really need, right? Do you play any instruments?’

‘Um, I’m grade 5 piano.’

‘Oh my God, we could actually do this.’ Glenn laughed at the street light above him, trailing off into a sigh. He was starting to hear himself. 

It was stupid to try and mash his depressed friend and his vulnerable son into a group with barely any musical experience between the two of them, just to force himself back into some semblance of normality. They were just drunk and insecure and daydreaming, and they’d probably forget all about it as soon as the subject changed. And speaking of changing the subject- ‘I better call the others. If you’re M.I.A. for much longer Henry’s gonna throw a shit fit, and I hate to think what’ll happen if he finds Darryl before he finds you.’

Ron made a distracted noise that was probably supposed to be a laugh, then jumped a little when Glenn’s dial tone started humming. 

‘Wait. Glenn?’

‘MmYep?’

‘You actually want to make a band with me, right?’

‘Yeah, totally. Sure.’

‘Promise.’ Ron stuck his hand into Glenn’s field of vision, one pinkie extended like a little kid.

Uggggggggghhhhhhhhh. Fuck. Whatever. God.

Glenn linked his pinkie with Ron’s and shook it once as Henry’s voice finally clicked on in his ear. He hoped against hope that this wouldn’t be one of those actions of his that came with consequences.


	2. True Care, Truth Brings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. It should go without saying that since posting chapter one I have been pretty distracted by some things going on in the world. I still wrote this chapter because I knew if I dropped off I'd never pick it back up but thank you for understanding if it's a little low-energy as a result. 
> 
> Black Lives Matter, and everybody please take care of yourselves <3

When Einstein or whoever it was said that every action had an equal opposite reaction he was talking about the way those little desk toys work, with the silver balls that swing up on the ends, but the sentiment was kind of interesting when applied to life, too. No incident exists in a vacuum, and every action anyone takes usually has its own ripple-out effect that affects the world around them. Sometimes a butterfly beats its wings in Argentina and causes an earthquake in Japan. And sometimes when you promise somebody you’ll start a band with them they actually expect you to make good on it.

Glenn discovered this the hard way when Ron showed up unannounced at his door, having intercepted Nick on the way home from school so that they arrived unnervingly at the same time. 

He had been lying on the couch with his eyes squeezed shut trying to remember the stupid song from the bar so that he could finally bring it up to Nick, but he knew his plans were shattered the second he saw the kid’s face framed by frustratedly peaked eyebrows, trying to silently rant about the waifish stray cat that had followed him home in the form of a mopey middle aged man. 

At least Ron had technically been fully dressed that time, having swiped some kind of sporty skirt from his wife’s wardrobe. It hung too low on his hips, but it didn’t matter because his shirt was long enough to cover the waistline anyway.

Well, Glenn may have been an idiot but he wasn’t stupid, or at least not stupid enough to pass up a golden opportunity to stretch his wasting front man muscles. He’d bluffed as hard as he could until Nick was hesitantly performing his recently perfected routine on the drums. Before long he was playing along on his old guitar and Ron had been swayed to pick out a pretty decent tune on the dusty keyboard. And just like a stray cat, he never left.

Well, of course, he  _ left. _ He had a home of his own to get back to, obviously. But he kept coming back and Glenn kept feeding him and finally he understood how his mom had ended up with so many old scruffy strays congregating at their back door while he was growing up. 

When Nick complained about their new addition in the evening after Ron had left, he’d played Ron’s corner.

‘Come on, Nick.’ He appealed, smiling what he hoped was a charitable smile, ‘I know he’s weird, but he just lost his job! He doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life, just let him play with us for a bit. A little good karma community service.’

And Nick had sighed dramatically like only a teenager could and sloped off to his room. He reminded Glenn more and more of himself at that age. Well, the pieces and fragments he could remember anyway.

Still, things were starting to fall into place. He was being a dad, yes, and he was helping Nick on the drums, yes,  _ and _ if things stayed sweet he had a chance of having a band again. He didn’t realize how much he wanted to get up somewhere and sing until he pictured it and it became all he could think about. Jamming with Nick was good, but nobody cheered for that. In terms of instant gratification, he was craving more, and he’d never been one for self deprivation.

So Glenn said ‘fuck it’, and started gunning for it. What was that phrase? When life gives you lemons, you take back your lemonade.

.

Ron hadn’t played the piano properly since he was a kid, and he’d certainly never played on a plastic keyboard like the one in the Close house. He’d considered taking it back up a couple times in the past, but he’d always been too busy to approach it and all the negative associations it came with. The piano in his childhood home had never been something he loved, it had been something he’d grown up wrestling with, pushing to become perfect before his teacher could criticize. Occasionally he could tap out a little tune on a piano he encountered, but within seconds he would become self-critical and it would stop being fun. 

The keyboard was different though. It sounded softer than an old piano, a light electronic buzz replacing the sharpness in the notes. Any mistake he made was softened by the speakers, and if he messed up during rehearsals it was masked by Glenn and Nick on their own instruments. That was the beauty of being in a band, he was realizing. You never messed up on your own. 

Ron had taken to rehearsals like a fish to water, albeit less like a little tropical fish darting through a coral reef and more like a fat trout wriggling free from a grinning frat boy’s hands and splashing back into the designated fishing lake. He dove in desperately because it was better than the alternative. In fact, it didn’t take long before he started showing up at Glenn’s house unannounced, during the daytime while Samantha was at work and Terry Jr was in school. It gave him somewhere to be that wasn’t his own judgmental empty house. Plus, something about the keyboard was starting to draw him in.

The first time, Glenn had sat on the couch and listened, plucking his guitar strings in a half-awake state, something rolled and burning between his teeth. He’d said,

‘Listen, man, thanks for letting Nick play with us. Y’know, he’s just learning and he’s getting there, but it’s real good for him to coll-a-bo-rate. Right?.’ and he’d said, ‘You’re the main man here, really.’

After that he mostly kept to himself and played video games while Ron confronted the keyboard, pressing random keys, changing the settings, dismantling everything he’d learned in his childhood lessons. Even if they barely exchanged a word until Nick came home, it felt good knowing there was someone else in the house with him.

There was this one little tune that Ron kept coming back to. Five notes, gently ascending and then falling on the last one. They weren’t a part of any song, they were the genuine product of his brain, and his fingers returned to them naturally when he wasn’t thinking, repeating it so that the tune rose and fell over and over. He couldn’t tell if they were happy or sad, or peaceful or lonely, and maybe that’s why he liked them so much. They were just like him. He could just play those five notes all day, and just not even think.

He couldn’t, though. He had actual songs to practice and, more importantly, he had an actual home to get back to. Home and the keyboard never mixed. He didn’t trust it yet, and something in him was terrified of letting it into the one place where he was safe, where his family was. The keyboard and the five notes lived in Glenn’s house, where he could visit them and sing a few songs and get out in time to do the dishes.

Chores were sacred in the Stampler household. Their house wasn’t extravagant but it was always clean, and sharing jobs was sometimes the only family activity anybody had time for in their busy schedules. So no matter what was happening with the band, Ron was always home by 8 with his arms drenched to the elbows in soapy water, waiting for Samantha to come home and slot into place beside him, like clockwork with her collection of novelty dishcloths.

Normally he worked in silence, or with some radio talk show rumbling away in the background, but Glenn had sent him home with a burnt CD entitled ‘Get Your Fucking Education’, according to the sharpie scrawl on the front of the disk. It had all the songs they were supposed to be playing, and some others that Glenn had acted personally offended over when Ron said he hadn’t heard of them, and he let it play while he scrubbed, mouthing along with the lyrics he was trying to learn by heart. Samantha smiled when she heard it, stopping to close her eyes and smile while she dropped her keys and coat.

‘What is this?’ She asked, nodding towards the stereo.

‘Fleetwood Mac.’ He replied, craning his head towards her so she could plant a tired kiss on his cheek.

‘It’s pretty.’ She smiled, ‘It reminds me of old movies.’

Up until then, the song had felt like homework. The melody was something he had to commit to memory, and the lyrics were just strings of repetitive words. But the way Samantha swayed and the way her eyes shone as she loaded dished into the kitchen cupboard changed the whole thing completely. Just like she said, it turned the moment into an old movie, the kind of low-lit sparkly scene they were too old for.

_ She rings like a bell in the night, and wouldn’t you love to love her? _

Ron wiped his soapy hands on his skirt, and took Samantha’s as she turned back to the drying board. He twirled her around slowly, clumsily, and she laughed, and laid her head down on his shoulder and swayed, her dishcloth still draped over her arm. 

‘Where you been all day?’ She murmured into his t-shirt. ‘You smell funny.’

‘Band practice.’ Her hair tickled his cheek when he talked.

‘So this is the kind of music you play?’

‘Yeah, sometimes.’ 

She hummed and he squeezed her hand, soaking in how it felt to be together after a long day, watching her pull back just enough to look him in the eyes with a little worry in her expression.

‘Are you happy, honey?’ She asked him.

‘Right now?’

‘In general. Since you lost the job, you jumped right into this band stuff. Are you happy with everything that’s going on for you?’

Ron thought about it. The music floated around them, soothing towards a faded-out finish.

‘Not yet.’ He said. ‘But I’m working on it.’

.

Glenn clicked his tongue agitatedly as the phone rang. Again, again, and every time he thought he heard a click the humming started over. Was she ignoring him? Glenn knew Deirdre was a busy woman but damn. He was just about to give up and start calling venues himself when a familiar annoyed voice broke through the dial tone.

‘What, Glenn?’

‘Heyyyyy, Dee. Did you miss me?’

‘Not really considering I saw you pretty recently, and we don’t work together anymore.’ 

‘Aw come on, don’t be mad, stuff changes y’know?’

‘I’m not mad, Glenn, I’m just busy. Now did you call me for a reason or can I go ahead and delete your number?’

Glenn rolled over in bed, slinging an arm over his eyes against the blinding noon sun.

‘Listen, I need you to get me a gig.’

‘You must be joking.’

‘Come on, man, please?’

‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now. You’re going solo? All of the Glenn Close, none of the Trio?’

‘No, I’m not, no it’s- listen it’s for Nick, okay? It’s like a father-son bonding thing.’

There was a pause on the other end, and Glenn felt his appeal find purchase. Deirdre had always had a mile-wide soft spot for Nick. 

‘Father-son bonding, huh?’ She hummed, some of her edge disappearing, ‘Didn’t think you had it in you.’

‘I’m trying.’ Glenn lay in his moment of sincerity for a moment, letting it settle before he started lying through his teeth, ‘He really wants this though, you know? He’s got real talent, and it would be awesome for him to get out there. Y’know, up there with his old dad.’ He was laying it on thick now, ‘Come on, DeeDee. For Nick?’

He clenched his teeth, holding the phone away from his ear like it was dangerous. All he could do was cross his fingers and hope he’d been persuasive enough. 

‘I can get you opening act at Tailors. That’s it.’

‘Sick! I love Tailors!’

‘You hate Tai-’ Deirdre started, but was immediately drowned out.

‘Thank you so much, you won’t regret this okay?’

‘I already do.’ She muttered as she hung up. 

And maybe Tailors hadn’t been Glenn’s favorite in the past, but right now he would have dragged Nick and Ron onto a park bandstand if it meant something resembling a gig. Playing the Nick card had been a good call. Now all he had to do was break the news to Nick.

.

Ron had never been good with kids, and that went double for teenagers. Little kids were more unpredictable, but if you did something to hurt their feelings at least they ran off crying to some kind of adult and then the situation could be de-escalated with a grown-up conversation. Teenagers were much more of a mystery. Spending time with the other dads’ kids on their venture into the Forgotten Realms should have helped, and in some ways it had brought him closer to understanding, especially with Terry. But in most ways it had shown him just how different kids of that age could be from each other, and how hard it was to follow the way they thought.

Because of all that, he genuinely couldn’t tell whether Nick liked him or not. More accurately, he couldn’t tell whether Nick hated him or if he was indifferent. The way he sighed through his nose and rolled his eyes whenever he came home and found Ron in the living room instead of his dad could have been moody acknowledgement, or it could have been real frustration. He never said anything, though, so it was pretty easy to brush off.

The quietness that clouded the house before rehearsals never bothered Ron. He knew that sharing silence was most of the time preferable to knowing what your companions were keeping to themselves. This time, though, when Nick came home and rolled his eyes, Glenn was in the room before his backpack hit the ground.

‘Guys.’ He looked excited, ‘I got good news.’

‘Hi to you too, dad.’ Nick replied.

‘Oh, right,’ rather than soldier on, Glenn actually corrected himself, ‘Hi, Nick. How was school?’

‘Shitty. What’s the news?’

‘I got us a gig.’

Ron felt a weird twist in his gut. This was good news, obviously, because Glenn looked pretty proud of himself, but it didn’t feel as good as he made it sound. Probably something to do with the fact that he’d made himself at home playing piano and singing along in a small room with two people, and the prospect of having to take this little escape back out into the public that he still felt like hiding from was both unwelcome and totally unexpected.

‘What?’ One look at Nick’s face told Ron he wasn’t too pleased either. For a flickering moment he looked downright scared.

‘Deirdre got us an opening slot at Tailors! It’s pretty small but it’s something.’

‘What?’ Nick repeated, ‘Why? You hate Tailors.’

Ron felt slightly sick. He felt like he wasn’t supposed to be there. Glenn’s arms dropped to his sides.

‘Thought you’d be excited, man.’

‘I mean…’ Nick sighed and reached down to tug a mostly-empty coke bottle out of his backpack, ‘I guess it was cool of Deirdre to swing that for you.’

Ron spoke up before they could forget he was there.

‘Um, excuse me. Who’s Deirdre?’

‘She was the promoter for his band.’ Nick nodded towards Glenn, ‘She’s cool.’

‘She set this up for you, you know.’ Glenn said.

‘That’s funny,’ Nick replied, ‘Because I don’t remember asking for it.’

With that, he stepped across the room and slumped behind the drum kit, and within seconds the room was full of crashing and banging, tuneless without accompaniment, an ode to the pent up frustration of a long day being a teenager.

Ron looked at Glenn. He was expecting annoyance, or maybe even nonchalance, but Glenn was watching Nick with a gentle expression. His eyebrows were still raised like he was hurt, but any other defensiveness in his face had just dissolved. It didn’t look right for the face of someone listening to the abrasive sound of Nick’s drumming, so close that every collision of wood and plastic and metal rang in Ron’s ears. Whatever Glenn might have been hearing, he was outside of the moment, and the notes meant nothing to him. 

A  _ gig _ ?

A gig was like a small concert, he was pretty sure. He’d never been to one. He’d never been to a concert either, really, unless you counted the Battle of the Bands. The Battle of the Bands which had been dangerous and cut-throat and...kind of amazing. He’d made a name for himself then, and people had chanted it. He’d been successful. Plus, Henry had told him he was proud of him, and being told that by a  _ bona fide _ father at that time had been significant enough to stick in his memory.

That was a different Ron. He wasn’t  _ Hi I’m Ron _ anymore either. Unemployed Ron was not the kind to chase the spotlight, no sir. But he might allow himself to be dragged into it, you know, if his band mates really wanted to.

Nick threw down his drumsticks with a final crash.

‘When is it?’ He asked.

‘Next Saturday.’

‘And you really wanna do it. With like four covers and no original songs.’

‘It’s just an opening slot, we won’t even have that much time to fill.’ Glenn sauntered over to the couch and sat down, pulling his guitar into his lap. He had just started turning one of those knobs on the top of it when he suddenly looked back up. ‘Wait. Original songs?’

‘Yeah, original songs. Most bands have them.’

Glenn’s hands started to move on his guitar while he considered this. Five notes, gently ascending and descending, rising and falling easily as they repeated. They were Ron’s five notes. He wondered if Glenn even noticed he was playing them.

‘I’ve never really been an original songs guy.’ He mused. ‘I don’t have the knack for making the tunes up. I just take other people’s songs and make them better.’

Nick smiled as he scoffed. Clearly the drum assault had worked out some of his angst.

‘You make the words up sometimes.’ He said.

‘Yeah, I make up words that are funny, though.’ Glenn countered, ‘We can’t do that on stage, I’m not Weird Al.’

He was still playing Ron’s five notes. They sounded different on guitar, lighter and springier.

‘Well, what’s that you’re literally playing right now?’ Nick pointed out. ‘That’s new.’

Glenn looked at his hands and watched himself play. He looked confused. He played them again, one at a time, slowly ascending, descending on the last note.

Ron started to raise his hand and at the same time Glenn suddenly turned pointed at him.

‘It’s that tune that Ron keeps playing!’ He blurted.

‘Those are my notes.’ Ron confirmed. ‘I didn’t actually know that you had heard them.’

‘They snuck into my head, dude.’ Glenn hummed the tune again, ‘Which  _ means _ they’re catchy!’ He turned to Nick, throwing a hand out, ‘Huh? Original song!’

‘Original five notes.’ Nick corrected him. He hadn’t really acknowledged Ron, but he didn’t care. It was fascinating to watch how Nick seemed to recharge off talking to his dad. Like he actually came out of his shell at home, and not the other way around. 

‘We’ll figure it out.’ Glenn shrugged, ever flippant. He strummed a single, decisive tone on his guitar. ‘Alright, places people. Let’s do Tears for Fears.’


	3. Watching, Waiting, Commiserating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update but I'm not gonna make excuses, I'll just keep truckin!
> 
> Also I've added an addiction tw because I realized I've created this cigarette addiction for Glenn that I don't think is canon but I didn't even think about it 'til it was already written so yeah!

[overnight oaks]

-I’m so excited for your guys' show tonight!

The text was marked with three tiny thumbs-up emojis and followed up with some dumb gif Darryl sent that was actually pretty funny. Glenn watched it loop a few times before locking his phone again. There were no messages since, and someone had just walked behind him with a keyboard.

Tailors was a bar built in what used to be a different bar that used to be another different bar that used to be a tailors, apparently. It was badly lit on purpose and it was full of old dress forms repurposed as decor. It reeked of pretentious forced ‘character’ that put Glenn ill-at-ease and the drinks were ludicrously expensive but it was a venue, and a stage was a stage. 

One of the bar backs was wrestling the clunky old Casio into place on the triangular corner stage and Glenn watched it go and then glanced around, turning when he spotted Ron by the door watching it, chewing on his thumb.

‘Hey,’ He said, walking over, ‘These guys know what you’re doing, they’re not gonna hurt your baby.’

‘I have a baby?’ Ron blinked out of his stare.

‘I’m talking about the keyboard. You’re watching it pretty closely.’

‘Well,’ Ron pushed on his voice, forever trying to sound assertive even if he looked like a rabbit in headlights, ‘I just think it looks wrong outside of your house.’

Glenn smiled. He had seen this kind of thing before.

‘I think I know what’s wrong with you.’ He announced.

‘Really?’ Ron seemed genuinely interested, ‘What is it?’

‘Uh huh. Stage fright. Classic case.’ 

Ron nodded thoughtfully, then turned to look at the stage and nodded again.

‘Okay.’ He said, ‘And what do you do to fix stage fright?’

‘What do _I_ do?’ Glenn laughed, ‘I’d tell you but I get the vibe you’re a little too straight edge for all that.’

Ron laughed nervously. It sounded like a CD skipping. He was still staring at the keyboard over Glenn’s shoulder. Glenn sighed.

‘Okay cut it out, we won’t be able to play if you’re all scared.’ 

At an arm's length he grabbed Ron’s shoulders and squeezed inwards with all the strength in his forearms. Ron’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but his expression neutralized, most of the tension lines smoothing out as he relaxed. It was a trick Glenn had picked up on tour. It worked both ways to keep everybody in the band happy, because if he started to panic over something and piss off everyone else in the van, someone could take great pleasure in shoving his head into the seat until he chilled out. Something about the pressure just slowed everything down for a bit. 

‘Better?’ He asked.

‘I’m just wondering...what if I’m not able to play here?’ Ron’s voice was a tad strangled.

‘Breathe.’ Glenn ordered and Ron started panting exaggeratedly. ‘Not like that! Come on, work with me-’

‘Uh, hello?’ 

Glenn whipped around instinctively at the sound of Nick’s voice. He was standing in the doorway, backpack over one shoulder, apprehensively eyeing the few early drinkers who dotted the room. Glenn felt a smile spreading across his face. He dropped Ron’s shoulders abruptly and he wheezed like a punctured air mattress.

‘Hey!’ He said, ‘You’re just in time!’

‘Just in time for what, to watch you trash compact a man?’

‘Yeah, obviously.’

Glenn launched forward and attacked Nick’s already windswept hair, mussing it beyond recognition as Nick rained punches onto his belly in retaliation. The stage was set, and he felt like a kid on Christmas. Nick was just in time for his first sound check.

Turning back with Nick in a headlock, Glenn saw Ron drifting around the keyboard onstage like it was something in a museum. Something really old and creepy that makes you think about how many old hands had touched that thing centuries before you ever got to see it. Nick disentangled himself and hopped up beside him, the stage already cramped with only two people on it, especially with the wide berth Ron was giving his instrument. Still, Nick’s face broke into the smile he’d been fighting as he tapped out a gentle rim shot under the single, fake-vintage stage light.

‘You got anyone coming tonight?’ Glenn asked him, and he laughed.

‘I have whole ass alibis in place to make sure that _doesn’t_ happen.’

Glenn was briefly hurt. He knew performing with your dad was kind of lame, but he hadn’t expected Nick to think that about _him_. He was a cool dad. Then he remembered Ron. Yeah, that must have been it. No self-respecting teen wanted to be seen with Ron, except maybe Terry Jr, and even he had taken a few whole years to come around. He was off the hook. 

Glenn was shaken out of his thoughts by an impatient voice from behind the bar.

‘Coast AM? Can you guys please be ready in the next half hour, alright, we wanna get you out of the way early.’

Coast AM. Their band. ‘Coast AM’ because ‘Coast to Coast AM’ was too long, because Nick’s various meme-based suggestions had been canned and because Ron’s argument that ‘Hi I’m Ron’ was their best option hadn’t managed to sway anyone. Glenn had spent many a sleepless night with that kooky call-in show, especially around the time that Nick was born, and it held a soft spot in his heart. Plus, he thought the name fit their vibe pretty well. Chill-sounding and kinda weird.

‘Okay guys, let’s get this show on the road.’ Glenn clapped his hands together, savoring the feeling as both Ron and Nick looked to him and nodded. Neither of them had enough experience to doubt his authority. He was just a good-looking duck guiding his scrawny, wide-eyed ducklings to the lake and he was loving it.

As it turned out, there _was_ something just slightly embarrassing about playing a set of three songs to a hipster bar whose sparse patrons were 50% disinterested and 50% your own friends. Somewhere at the start of their short-lived performance, Glenn started to think Nick had had the right idea laying low. But somewhere halfway through, he stopped caring. Was it the farthest possible thing from rock and roll? Maybe. But who was he to worry about a crowd? Henry and Darryl had been a captive audience for some of his most obnoxious back seat concerts, and they still showed up tonight, so that had to count for something. 

And then, just as they were bustled off the stage before they could even attempt their fourth song, Glenn noticed somebody. He pushed past his congratulatory friends towards the flash of short burgundy hair at the bar. Deirdre was swirling a whisky sour and pretending not to notice him.

‘Deirdre!’ He yelled over the noise, too happy to play into her cold shoulder routine. ‘You made it!’

‘Had to check out the talent.’ She raised an eyebrow at him, ‘I gotta say I’m pleasantly surprised. Who’s the guy?’

‘Who, Ron? With the mustache? He’s a friend, his kid goes to school with Nick-’

‘He’s good. He’s a good singer.’

‘I guess.’

Deirdre stared him down. She had an annoying way of intimidating Glenn with just a look. She reminded him of an army general crossed with his old school secretary. 

‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you.’

‘I'm hoping you won’t.’ Glenn cringed.

‘He’s better than you.’

‘There it is.’ With the Glenn Close Trio, there were usually two buffers beside him to absorb some of their publicist’s no-nonsense energy. This time he was all on his own and damn, maybe he just wanted a pat on the back and to be told ‘good job’ for once without having to go jumping straight to inconvenient truths. 

Deirdre knocked back the last of her drink and folded her arms.

‘Put him up front and you might have something here.’

‘What? No way, he’s better in the back, his vocal style-’

‘If you want more gigs, you’ll let him sing lead. I know what I’m doing, Glenn.’

‘But it’s _my_ band!’

‘Is it?’ Deirdre’s face was challenging, ‘ _I_ thought it was for Nick.’

Glenn chewed on his lip in frustration, returning her stare with reluctant surrender. The bartender slid an artistically labeled beer bottle between them.

‘That’s for you.’ She nodded.

Glenn grabbed the bottle and turned back to the foot of the stage where Ron had been swept into his wife’s arms and was grinning like a maniac. Even Nick was making reluctant small talk with Mercedes. Darryl waved him over and Glenn waved back and moved in. Goddammit, he was about to get some pats on the back.

  
  


.

Somewhere that night, something in Ron’s head had clicked. Somewhere huddled on that tiny little two-foot triangular stage, in between the rushed songs, staring right into the stage light til it blinded him with floating lilac bubbles, he’d changed.

It was like a shaky little meter in his brain stopped wavering in the unsure amber space between ‘businessman’ and ‘???’ and swung straight to ‘musician’ with a metallic clang. He’d looked over at Glenn and Nick, the very two people who’d been long gone by the time he’d finished his last public performance, and he’d seen them happy, jittering with excitement even as they bundled off the stage, making way for the impatient-looking guitarist man in the flannel shirt that they’d been opening for.

He had it. His new identity. It all made perfect sense. He’d got in on the ground level of this little enterprise, but there was plenty of room for upward mobility. If he played his cards right he figured he could be in line for promotion in no time. When Glenn told him they’d been offered more gigs he knew this was his chance to prove himself and climb that ladder.

It was with this newfound enthusiasm that he arrived at the Close house the next day, only to be met by Glenn at the door, actually wearing shoes and with his hair pushed back by his old bandanna, clean and a little threadbare.

‘Field trip.’ He announced, and before he knew it he was in the passenger seat of Glenn’s car, listening to Led Zeppelin and trying to ignore the way Glenn’s eyebrows were furrowed in what looked like annoyance until they pulled up in front of a plain-looking building.

‘Where are we?’ He asked carefully, and Glenn wiped his hand over his forehead, taking the frown with it.

‘This is the best thrift shop in the area, trust me. And we’re going shopping.’

‘Why?’

‘You can’t keep showing up to gigs dressed like that.’

Ron glanced down at his t-shirt and not-pants combo of the day. He had found that swim trunks walked the line successfully, but the only ones he had were too tight to pass as decent. This field trip was a blessing, he realized. He was getting pretty darn sick of dressing like this too.

The shop was huge and airy, only a ‘room’ by merit of four walls and a ceiling. The entire floor was lined with racks on racks of mismatched clothes in clashing colours, and the air smelled like hundreds of different homes’ special flavours of dust. Glenn cracked his knuckles. 

‘Okay.’ He eyed up the selection, ‘Anything but pants. We’re honoring Scam’s memory by accepting his challenge. Let’s go.’

Ron followed Glenn’s determined lead into the labyrinth of fabric. A pair of brown slacks caught his eye but he tore himself away to catch up. 

Aimlessly, he started sorting through hangers, enjoying the click as they slid into each other, mingling with similar click-clacking rhythms all over the floor. A small pink t-shirt with bubble writing caught his eye and he turned with a grin to exhibit it.

‘Look.’ He said, ‘ _You Go, Glen Coco_.’ 

Glenn laughed genuinely, caught off guard with hangers dangling off his arms already. 

‘Hey, hold on to that, maybe I can wear it as a wristband.’ Ron was pretty sure he was joking, but before he could react Glenn was already shoving things at him.

‘Are these pants?’ A pair of stretchy cycle shorts. 

‘Pretty sure this is okay.’ A scruffy-looking denim skirt.

‘This is a gamble,’ Some kind of khaki boiler suit, ‘Just try them all on and see what sticks.’ 

An old woman pushed behind them awkwardly, taking up all the limited space between racks. As she passed she looked pointedly down at Ron’s legs and then huffed self-righteously. Ron watched her walk away, a frown tightening his face until Glenn’s elbow nudged his arm.

‘Hey,’ he muttered through a mischievous grin, ‘Don’t look now but I think she’s checking you out.’

Ron giggled, half humor and half relief. All the power was drained from a stranger’s disapproval when you had a friend to laugh about it with.

‘Well, why wouldn’t she?’ He countered, posing a little with an armful of clothes. Glenn laughed through his teeth, muffling himself like a schoolboy. He punched Ron in the shoulder and Ron beamed. A teenage store clerk gave them a quick look before going back to stocking. 

Ron looked at the stack mismatched garments in his hands. He missed being able to make sense of his wardrobe based on the fact that everything he bought looked like something he already owned. 

‘Can I ask a question?’ He started.

Glenn looked up from a cross between a hoodie and a dress that looked like something a monk would wear if they were going through a phase.

‘What’s my look?’

Glenn looked him up and down, took one more look at the hooded dress and placed it back on the rack.

‘Right now your look is whatever we can get our hands on, but like, why? Do you have anyone in mind you wanna look like?’

Ron thought.

‘Frasier Crane?’

‘No.’

‘Then I don’t know.’

Glenn threw a t- shirt at him and he ducked to catch it on top of his pile.

‘We’ll figure it out, alright, just go try all that stuff on.’

The fitting room was a chipboard box with an unreliable curtain across the front. A smudged mirror reflected the scuzzy, lazy Ron he was getting sick of seeing. Quickly, he worked through the stack of hangers, finding what fit and what didn’t, and what let him look at himself and not totally hate what he saw.

The cycle shorts didn’t pass the curse, but the work suit did. The t-shirt and denim skirt didn’t really go with his unkempt mustache and tired eyes, but they went with each other and the rest could be reconciled another time. Each piece of clothing smelled like a different washing powder. 

When he finally emerged he found Glenn at the back of the shop flipping through cassette tapes. 

‘You think you got a look going?’ He asked.

‘I hope so.’ Ron shrugged.

‘Okay, let's get out of here then.’

They wandered towards the checkout, glancing around for anything good they might have missed until Glenn stopped abruptly at a rack of old-lady-ish clothes. The woman from earlier was there, and she moved pointedly down the aisle as Glenn lunged at a simple floral dress with fancy little buttons. It looked like something that might turn heads in a nursing home, and the enthusiasm on Glenn’s face just didn’t compute.

‘Oh my God, dude.’ He held the hanger out to Ron, ‘Hold this for a second.’

Ron held it as Glenn started frantically tapping at his phone. He guessed it was kind of pretty, but…

Glenn turned his phone screen around, revealing a slightly grainy photo of a man with blond hair spilling over his shoulders. He had his hands casually in the pockets of an almost-similar floral dress that he was wearing over a t-shirt, and that, through whatever coolness he exuded, he was somehow making work.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Who’s that? It’s Kurt Cobain, man.’

‘Is that...do we know him?’

Glenn rolled his eyes.

‘I guess at this point it would kinda be weirder if you _did_ know who he was. Uh, he was a musician. One of the great front men.’

Ron held the dress up to his shoulders. He glanced from the unfussy skirt that skimmed his knees, back to the photo, back to himself. He wasn’t sure if it all quite added up. He didn’t have the looks of this Kurt Cobain character, his own vibe was a little more refined, he thought. But Glenn said this guy was a great front man and if Glenn said that then he must be right-

Hold on.

‘What are you dressing me like a front man for?’

Glenn sighed, turning his attention down to his scuffed shoes.

‘Yeah, actually I meant to talk to you about that.’

Ron took a deep breath.

Somebody coughed loudly. Turning his head, Ron followed the sound to the kid behind the checkout counter, awkwardly watching their conversation.

‘Are you guys...ready to pay?’ They asked, glancing at the other customers the two of them were blocking with their little scene.

‘Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.’

Outside, Glenn lit some kind of cigarette. Ron was beginning to know how to tell them apart by the smell, but he never asked questions because he didn’t want to admit to not knowing the answers. This one was one of the bitter-smelling ones, the ones he only seemed to smoke as an obligation, on some kind of internal clock. It didn’t seem to make any sense, putting fire in your mouth when it was this hot out. Ron wondered if there was a way to smoke something cold and refreshing instead. He wondered if anyone had ever tried to sell that. 

‘So listen, Ron.’ Glenn coughed, and then exhaled a cloud-covered sentence that kick-started Ron’s competitive spirit into overdrive, ‘How do you feel about a little promotion?’

.

Growing up, Glenn had wanted nothing more than to play with his dad. He’d beg for a chance to go up beside him and show the gathered audiences of weary old people that he was something special, that he was a prodigy worthy of his father’s pride. And every time, without fail, he’d end up stuck at the back of the bar with his Game Boy, watching his dad command the room, taking whatever booze and cigarettes the sleazy couples offered him for their own entertainment. If he couldn’t impress them by being the kid on stage with a guitar, at the very least he could be the kid who could look them in the eyes and inhale tobacco smoke without blinking, while they laughed hoarsely and slapped his shoulders with their clammy hands. It was the best thing that ever happened to him, in hindsight. The rejection had hurt, but it had pushed him to stop trying to learn country music to impress his dad, and let him focus on the music _he_ loved. It had also saddled him with a lifelong cigarette addiction, among other things, but what was a rock star without a few vices?

Here and now, he was over his dad, he was over the Christmas music, and he was back in the welcoming arms of his old favorite songs and it felt like home. He’d sing a song and in the back of his mind he’d see himself on the school bus, head against the shaking window, zoning out to that same song on his Walkman. High school Glenn had perpetual bruises on his forehead from those bus windows. And then Ron would play those five new notes on his keyboard and he would be dragged kicking through everything, college, Morgan, Nick, the Forgotten Realms, painfully into the present. Songwriting. Songwriting was a little _bitch_.

The only advice Glenn’s dad had ever given him about songwriting was something like _‘start with something that’s true’,_ and even that had lost its weight when he discovered it was a quote he’d stolen from Paul Simon. But starting with something true was astronomically easier said than done. Sure, he could write a little song about instant ramen, or Call of Duty, or even about all the crazy magical shit they’d gone up against not that long ago, but nobody in their right mind would listen to that. No, there was only one kind of song that sold.

‘Love songs.’ Nick grimaced. Ron smiled. Glenn shushed him. ‘The only kinds of songs people want to hear when they’re in some gentrified bar either _on a date_ or _drowning their sorrows_ are love songs _._ Like it or not.’

The song was actually getting somewhere these days. Between gigs they’d had time to arrange a proper melody, when they weren’t furiously re-rehearsing their songs with Ron as lead. Yeah, Ron as lead. He’d taken Deirdre’s advice and ‘promoted’ Ron, half-hoping that he’d refuse based on how nervous he’d acted at Tailors, but Ron had taken the position with a fire in his eyes that Glenn hadn’t seen in months. He’d gotten a haircut and cleaned himself up, and now he was swaggering around in grungy thrift shop clothes like he owned the place.

Which was funny because he was still, well, Ron.

‘I wrote some lyrics last night actually.’ He offered, pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper.

Glenn sighed, ‘Alright, shoot.’

Ron cleared his throat, leaned into his recently-composed chords on the keys in front of him and started singing.

‘ _My name is Ron and I am here to say_

_I don’t think Bones was that good_

_And that a cat walked into my garden when I wrote this_

_And I think he’s eating a bird._

And that’s it.’

Glenn slowly, silently turned his gaze to Nick, whose face was frozen in the same dangerously wavering grin as his own. The second their eyes met, the floodgates opened and both of them doubled over with pure delighted laughter. Ron joined in unperturbed, glancing between the two of them as he tittered. Glenn threw his hands out in exaggerated acceptance.

‘Start with something true!’ 

Start with something that’s true. Write a love song. It sounded so stupidly simple, but they were two mutually exclusive instructions when you didn’t have any love in your life to write about. And, yeah, he could try and write a song about Morgan, he’d tried it plenty of times before, and even way back in the day he’d change the lyrics of their favorite songs, crooning _‘Mor-gan words’_ just to make her laugh and push his face away, but the thought of trying to put those feelings into words now, in front of anyone, and especially to then give them to Ron to sing…

Yeah. Without some kind of divine musical intervention, the song was a car crash in a cul de sac. A stalling, smoking dead end.

.

  
  


‘You’re not gonna help me with the dishes first?’ 

Both Ron and Samantha were frozen by the front door, her coming in, him on his way out. She had that tired look that she carried home from work, and this time it didn’t melt into a smile. She just looked at him, waiting for his answer.

‘I have to go.’ He said, ‘I’m gonna be late.’

‘Can’t they wait a few minutes?’

‘I’m important now. They need me.’

Samantha nodded, unbuttoning her coat with a little sigh.

‘Wait.’ Ron started and she looked back at him. Her makeup was creased in the little lines around her eyes and her mouth and her dress was all crumpled from being under her coat and she looked so pretty in the unforgiving electric light. ‘Come with me.’ He said.

And for a split second she almost smiled.

And then,

‘I can’t, Ronnie, I’m tired. And I got...y’know. Work tomorrow.’

‘Okay. Will you at least kiss me goodnight?’

Samantha hung her coat on its hook, and paused, and for a second he panicked, and then she closed the space between him and kissed him softly, cupping his cheek and then smoothing the unfamiliar fabric of his new shirt. 

‘I love you.’ He murmured.

‘I love you too.’ She replied, ‘But…’

She looked at him, between his eyes, like she was searching for what she wanted to say, but whatever it was she shooed it like a fly with a shake of her head and retreated back into the house.

‘I’ll do the dishes when I get home.’ Ron promised, and then he was gone.

The keyboard stood up front with him, now. It stood between him and the audience, protecting him from their indifferent glances and sneering double-takes at his pants alternative of the day. The crowds had been slightly less warm since their friends had become too busy to attend, but they clapped at the ends of songs and they didn’t have to rush offstage for anybody, and what’s more they actually got _paid._ Not anywhere near an actual wage, but enough to buy drinks and fast food after gigs without being a drain on his own household.

More than anything, the most satisfying part of performing was singing. He spent his days so soft-spoken that the burn of his stomach muscles after projecting a carefully-rehearsed tune felt accomplished and exciting. Not to mention the fact that he loved the sound of his own voice, but that sentiment was becoming less and less narcissistic as the things he loved about it changed. He loved the way his voice mingled with the instruments. He loved the way his voice mingled with Glenn’s. There was one Green Day song that Nick had muscled onto the set list that they had totally nailed the harmonies on. He loved the way it made people take notice.

And then before he knew it they were finishing their last song and everybody was turning back to their drinks and forgetting all about them as they lugged their stuff back to the back seats of Glenn’s car. 

‘One of these days it’s gonna kick off.’ Glenn promised, ‘Deirdre’s gonna come through for us, she’s just holding out.’

Nick was looking intently at his phone, watching something, and Ron couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. To his surprise, Nick was just staring at his phone’s home screen. Then, before his eyes, the big numbers that had told him it was a minute to midnight ticked over, and the date changed and Nick looked up with an excited expression and briefly met Ron’s eye before he caught up with his dad.

‘Hey.’ He said, nonchalantly, setting his face to a cool neutral, ‘It’s tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yeah, so it is.’ Glenn responded vaguely, trying to wrap a cable around his hand.

‘So it’s the next day. After yesterday. Yesterday was the 17th.’ 

‘Uh huh.’

‘So today is the 18th.’

‘What’s your point, Nick?’ Glenn smiled through a haze of confusion and Nick’s cool act slipped a little.

‘Dad!’ He whined, ‘It’s my birthday!’

Glenn’s eyes widened in panic. He started counting on his fingers.

‘Did you forget my birthday?’

‘No, no, May 18th, I know your birthday, I just...I genuinely thought we were in April.’

Nick huffed.

‘Well, shit! Happy birthday, man!’ Glenn scooped Nick into a hug that lifted him off his feet. Nick kicked his legs and groaned but even when he was inelegantly released from his dad’s grip he was smiling as he hit the ground.

‘New plan!’ Glenn announced, ‘We’re about to go celebrate this fifteen-year-old.’ He shot Nick a nervous look, verifying that he’d at least got that part right, and Nick nodded, and before Ron could bring up the dishes waiting for him at home he was sitting at a table in a 24-hour Italian restaurant eating profiteroles while Glenn snuck Nick alcohol under the exhausted and indifferent watch of the night staff.

Ron had thought about texting Samantha, but he knew she’d be in bed by now with her phone on the bedside table, and the notification would only wake her up and she didn’t deserve that. It was fine. He’d get home soon enough and he’d just somehow wash and dry the dishes without making any noise and then he’d crawl into bed and maybe when she woke up in the morning she’d see him and she’d smile again. Meanwhile he was stuck as a third wheel at a rickety metal table with curly legs that looked like it should be outside on a sunny European street, not in this dingy windowless pizza dungeon.

‘Shut up, seriously.’

‘And we had to, like, put these weird gloves on you so you didn’t claw your own eyes out or something and you looked like you had little nub hands-’

‘ _Dad!_ Shut up! Talk about something else!’

‘Alright, alright, one sec, where’s the bathroom in here?’

Glenn pushed out his chair, a metallic scraping noise accompanying every inch, and stumbled into the dark recesses of the restaurant. Ron and Nick both watched him go, then glanced at each other, then quickly looked back at their food. Ron sucked on his straw even though he’d finished his drink long ago, just to make that annoying rattling noise and let it fill the silence.

‘Ignore all the baby stories.’ Nick muttered after a pause. ‘I think he’s just trying to embarrass me.’

‘Oh, well, I mean I’ve heard it all before.’ Ron replied, a little surprised that Nick was even speaking to him.

‘What?’

‘Not about you. But just baby stories. All babies are the same.’

‘Yeah, probably.’

Ron poked at the unappealing mess of pastry on his plate.

‘It’s probably ‘cos he loves you.’

‘Hm? What?’

‘People like to talk about stuff they love. That’s why he likes talking about you.’

‘...Oh.’ 

‘You talk about bands you love all the time. And most of the time I don’t get it and I don’t really listen, just like I didn’t really listen to any of the baby stories either.’

‘Good.’

‘But it’s still good that you love those bands, I guess, and it’s really good that your dad loves you. That’s really important, you know when I talk to my son Terry, I…’

Ron felt himself trail off. When was the last time he’d talked to Terry properly? Not for days. He wondered what he was doing right then. Probably awake watching movies or something, but Ron hoped he was getting some sleep. He was reassured by that thought, the kind of nice thought you have when you love somebody. Even if he hadn’t been there a lot recently, he could prove still cared, and he could work on the rest later.

‘Well, uh, thanks.’ Nick spoke to his blank face, taking Ron’s brief reverie as an opportunity to quell the emotion that had briefly changed his expression, ‘And for the record, you must listen to my band talk a little because you guys totally nailed Are We the Waiting.’

A clatter of a door indicated Glenn’s return, waving as he reappeared, commanding attention like it was breathing.

‘Oh, happy birthday by the way.’ Ron added as both their heads were turned.

‘Thanks.’


	4. Your Ride, Best Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiii everybody *sheepishly sidles in with a new chapter after months of nothing* writing's hard sometimes

‘It’s an Irish pub, so you could play to that crowd a bit. Throw in some U2.’

‘You know I don’t do them, on principle.’

‘Irish pubs?’

‘No, Dee, U2.’

‘The Pogues, then.’

‘Hey, I got nothing against The Pogues! Fairytale of New York got me through some tough crowds.’

‘Alright then, see you then. And, you know what, Glenn?’

‘Uh huh?’

‘You guys are doing alright.’

.

Since Nick’s birthday, Glenn had found himself in one of his ‘introspective weed moods’. He’d even dug up some old photos, still in their faded little packets from the drugstore because they’d never quite got around to putting them into albums. A couple weeks before Nick was born, Glenn’s mom had sent them this big sappy book full of blank spaces to paste photos and write about milestones through the first year of one generic baby’s life. It was still in the attic, addressed to  _ ‘Glenn, Morgan and Baby Close’  _ and completely, starkly empty. They’d just kept procrastinating it until it was too late and it was forgotten. There was no lock of hair from Nick’s first haircut, no account of his first steps, and even the name scrawled on the front page in shaky new-dad handwriting hadn’t been his son’s name for quite some time.

At least the photos were all still there. They were a little faded, with fifteen years of dust stuck to the glossy surfaces, but there she was. Flushed and sweaty, remnants of old eyeliner on her cheeks, as beautiful as the day he met her, staring at the bundle in her arms like it was the whole world. God he loved her, he loved her still, more than he could put into words. If only he could put that photo to music it would make the perfect love song. Instead he tucked it into the pages of the baby book, under a printed cursive caption that said  _ ‘From the moment I laid eyes on you…’ _

He wasn’t sure if he was meant to add to that, finish the sentence, and what he’d even write, but he didn’t have a pen and he didn’t have that much time until Nick got home and they’d have to cram in one last rehearsal before their gig at Flaherty’s that night. He’d only been there once before, bar-hopping with an old friend who convinced him to stop for a Guinness. Guinness had turned out to be disgusting, but if the pub was as tacky and packed as Glenn remembered it, they were in for a good show.

As promised, Coast AM finished their set that night with Rainy Night in Soho. Originally Glenn had been skeptical about doing, well, a sad song. But it turned out it was only such a sad song when that miserable old toothless guy sang it, all croaky and remorseful. When Ron sang it, he brought a sort of...not innocence, cos god knew none of them were innocent, but a hopefulness to it. It captured the crowd, the same people who’d been ruffled by the debut of his floral dress were now singing along, not to the words but to the keys. They loved him. And Glenn wasn’t mad about it. Somewhere deep down he knew they couldn’t have done this with him up front. However goofy Ron was, he was earnest. There was no way Glenn could have ever taken a song like this seriously.

Honestly, he was starting to feel kinda comfortable two steps back from the spotlight, so to speak. It gave him a pretty chill vantage point to take in the way they performed together, the way people reacted. Plus, with room to move, he could sidle back towards the drums until he was close enough that Nick’s beats reverberated in his rib cage, keeping his heartbeat in time. Still, he couldn’t help being the one to close the gig. Fuck it, he had stage presence or he had nothing.

‘Alright, thank you very much, guys!’ He called, stumbling to the front, ‘We are Coast FM- wait no, Coast to Coast...Coast AM! We’re Coast AM and we hope you all have a good night!’

And just like that the bar descended into a ruckus of resumed conversation and clinking glasses, and the spell was broken. It was like an invisible curtain fell over the stage. Nick yawned loudly, stretching his fists above his head. 

‘You tired, buddy?’ Glenn asked.

‘No.’ Nick deflected on instinct, brushing imaginary dust off of his flannel shirt. ‘Just bored.’

‘Not rock and roll enough for you?’

‘Sure.’ He yawned again, but this time he rubbed his hand against his nose to hide it. Glenn felt like he should probably hug him, or at least ruffle his hair or something, but the timing didn’t feel right. Instead he struck the cymbal with his finger and turned away.

Ron was fumbling through the pockets of his dress with that familiar faraway look in his eyes. It was almost hilarious to think about how different he looked from that guy who’s name he didn’t know who’d got the cops called on him at one of Nick’s games for fucking with the flags or whatever. If you’d told Glenn that day, while he was laughing at the commotion and savoring the break from having to actually watch soccer, that that same sweater-wearing screwball would be fighting monsters beside him in some crazy parallel dimension before taking down his own demonic dad and eventually ending up hanging out on some sticky bar stage dressed like Kurt Cobain… well, actually, he probably would have believed you. Glenn liked believing in that kind of thing.

Without really thinking about it, he slung one of his fists around Ron’s neck and pulled him in. It wasn’t really a hug, with his guitar between them and Ron’s hands still buried in his pockets, but he had to admit it felt good to steal a moment of camaraderie while the energy of the performance was still fresh. 

‘Good show, man.’ He said.

‘Hey, Glenn,’ Ron announced like he hadn’t said anything, ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about some lyrics.’ 

‘Oh yeah? Lay ‘em on me.’ 

Both of them fell into a practiced routine, collapsing stands and pulling cords while Ron finally fished out a crumpled piece of notepaper from his pocket.

‘So, they’re about my wife, Samantha.’ He called over the chatter, ‘It’s a love song.’ 

‘Oh, yeah?’ Glenn grinned. This could be funny. 

‘You can just read them.’

Glenn snatched the page and glanced over the scrawled words.

‘Hey, Nick-’ 

When he glanced up, Nick wasn’t at the drums. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere on the stage.

Glenn turned, scanning the crowd for a red shirt or a familiar haircut. Eventually his eyes landed by the bar where, silhouetted against reproduced advertising posters with toucans on them, Nick was talking to a small group of flushed and noisy adults. Correction, they were talking to him. Nick was slowly edging away with a pack of peanuts in a white-knuckle grip.

Glenn’s dampened dad instincts sizzled. Slinging his guitar bag over his shoulder, he made a beeline for his son, pushing through people as he did. As he got to the bar a manically grinning blonde woman caught his eye through a babble of over-excited Dublin accents.

‘Here’s Daddy then!’ She crowed, leaning forward, ‘Where’s Mam?’

Nick flinched. 

‘Over with the keyboard.’ The man closest to her, a tall brick wall of a guy, snickered and the woman burst into peals of ugly laughter, leaning back against him as she did. Glenn felt any residual good mood turn to anger. With one firm hand he gripped Nick’s shoulder as he faced the giggling group.

‘What is your problem?’ He asked, and the blonde woman  _ ‘oooh’ _ -ed a little bit, ‘Seriously, you can’t just let a kid buy snacks without hassling him?’

‘We’re just having a bit of fun with the fella.’ The other man chimed in with an infuriating grin. His hair was buzzed so close to his head Glenn could see the sweat on his scalp.

‘No need to get all  _ overprotective _ .’ The woman finished.

‘Glenn, let’s just go, who cares.’ Nick muttered through gritted teeth, but Glenn was pissed off at this point, and he wasn’t a big fan of giving in to smug jackasses, no matter how harmless.

‘Nah, I’m in no hurry.’ He spoke slowly, a hint of a showy smile creeping onto his face, ‘I can wait for these assholes to apologize.’

‘Who’re you calling assholes, there, big music man?’ The big guy was still smiling, but the energy of it was less passive now. His friends’ faces changed to amused anticipation.

‘Yeah, what? You peaked stealing lunch money in middle school and it was all downhill from there?’

‘Are you startin’, pal?’ The big guy was standing now. It happened so slowly Glenn barely noticed him get up until he was suddenly eye level with the dude’s chin. He felt a little spark of excitement as Nick wriggled out of his grip.

‘Maybe I am.’ He puffed out his chest a little bit, but before he could move, two hands grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted in the fabric, stealing the chance he had to catch his breath. The bald guy was out of his seat now, too, hovering like he was waiting for a cue. Glenn kicked his feet indignantly as the tall guy angled his chin back, winding up for a headbutt-

Then suddenly a voice said- ‘Nicholas, move.’ and a fist that wasn’t his connected with the big guy’s jaw. 

The blonde woman shrieked over dramatically as Glenn found himself suddenly loose, stumbling backwards into a pair of familiar skinny arms in a red flannel shirt, hearing Nick’s shocked ring in his ears.

Standing in front of the two Close boys was Ron, the keyboard tucked under his left arm as he shook out the hand on his right.

‘Sneaky fucker!’ The big guy blurted. Heads were starting to turn around them, and Glenn couldn’t stop himself from beaming as he found his balance, yelling ‘yes!’ at Ron’s back. 

The bald man had gotten all the prompting he was waiting for. With a determined expression he charged at Ron, and just as quickly Ron swung the keyboard in a clumsy arc, bashing the guy with a comical blow of hard plastic and keys. The momentum of the keyboard unbalanced him and the bald man swooped in to yank him to the floor by a fistful of his dress. 

‘Shit, Ron!’ Glenn coughed. He vaguely patted Nick’s head as he launched head first back into the fray. The big guy was a good head taller than Ron, and he didn’t exactly have the benefit of sneak attacks when he was sprawled on his ass. 

As he brushed by the blonde lady, still watching from her seat, he felt half a pint glass worth of beer splash against one side of his head, sticking his hair to his face and trickling down his neck, but he didn’t slow his roll until he was standing over Ron, pulling him up by his hands.

‘Dude!’ He started, ‘That was-’

But before he could supply an adjective his skull was briefly displaced from his body as a fist rocked his head around whiplash-fast. A definite reaction came from the bar-goers this time, and even before his vision refocused Glenn thought he heard Nick’s voice over them.

‘Ow!’ Was the best response he could come up with. Pure adrenaline spurred him on as he wound up to retaliate, just as a voice behind the bar screamed,

‘I just called the cops!’

Everybody froze. The big guy’s hand had blood on it that Glenn was pretty sure belonged to him.

‘Did they call the cops on  _ us _ ?’ Ron whispered.

‘We gotta go.’ Glenn leapt into action, spinning around until he located Nick with a gaggle of concerned looking women. Without acknowledging the women he snatched Nick by the arm, nudged Ron to follow and booked it for the door, ignoring the shouting behind them.

‘Still bored?’ He asked, a touch hysterically, as they burst into the night air.

‘Dad, you’re bleeding.’ 

‘Come on, we gotta get out of here.’ Glenn’s car was still parked somewhere by the bar, but knowing how long his unreliable brain usually took to remember where he parked, let alone where he’d stashed his keys, he wasn’t even willing to risk it. His guitar case thumped against his back as the rows of closed storefronts echoed the sound of three pairs of feet pounding the pavement. 

‘Where are we going?’ Nick called, still hanging out of Glenn’s grip as he struggled to keep up.

‘I think there’s a park near here, a- Ah! Yes! There!’

Swerving, Glenn didn’t even attempt to vault the gate. Instead he stumbled through it until it spit him out into a pitch-dark stretch of grass surrounded by sycamore trees. There was always something about running in the dark that made it seem like you were going so fast, barely touching the ground, everything streaking past-

With a shout of surprise Glenn felt his ankle twist underneath him, and the frantic momentum of the rest of his body hurled him over into wet grass. He heard laughter catch up to him as he rolled onto his back.

‘Hey, give your old man a hand?’ He appealed as Nick appeared in his line of vision.

‘Okay, grandpa.’ Nick scoffed happily as he offered his hand, and then yelped as Glenn yanked back on his grip, pulling Nick to the ground beside him. Ron hovered, silhouetted with the keyboard against the night sky.

‘Ron, get down.’ Glenn urged, and he dropped into the grass, rolling gently onto his back so that the three of them made a weird little sunburst from their heads out to their damp shoes. Somewhere beyond the park gates, sirens blared into range and each of them held their breath.

And then they faded, just as quickly as they’d begun. Glenn’s face ached from blunt force trauma and smiling. Something like vomit or euphoria bubbled up inside of him and all he could do was be grateful that the latter was the one that ended up coming out of his mouth. 

  
  


.

Glenn’s laugh, when he really laughed, was hysterical. It started sharp like an exclamation, and then climbed into a rattling crescendo that splintered the empty air of the park. His stomach lifted off the ground with the effort of it. 

Nick picked it up like an amp, such a similar sound distorted by the strain on his pint-sized vocal cords. And before he knew it Ron was laughing too. Not a forced, awkward giggle or a silent exhale either. He was laughing like he couldn’t help it, releasing all the nervous tension from his gut and snorting on the movement of his breath. 

They probably sounded completely insane, if anyone could hear them, but it didn’t seem like anyone else could possibly be seeing their moment, their mingled laughter ringing in the still, dark silence, dew soaking their backs, stars blurring in their vision. 

‘Oh, fuck, dude, I really am bleeding.’ Glenn spluttered happily, wiping his nose on the hem of his t-shirt.

‘I can’t believe that happened!’ Nick gasped. He sounded delighted.

Ron’s back was starting to hurt. He’d been in much worse scrapes in the Forgotten Realms, of course, but he’d gone soft since they’d got back. Gone too soft to win a fight, lying around looking at the stars in a dress like some kind of-

The keyboard was at his feet. He kicked it instinctively, then spoke to drown out his internal monologue. 

‘How are we gonna get home?’

Glenn frowned thoughtfully.

‘Yeah, the car’s gonna have to wait for mañana.’ He mused, ‘And I don’t know about either of you but I don’t feel like walking. Nick, you got money for a Lyft?’ 

‘We don’t need money for a lift!’ Ron cut in, a light bulb forming over his head, ‘We can call Samantha! I don’t normally like to disturb her this late, but I think it’s okay in an emergency.’

Glenn looked hesitant.

‘What?’

‘I dunno man, like… I just feel like she’ll be mad at me.’

‘ _ What? _ ’

‘She just gives me teacher vibes or something. She reminds me of my therapist.’

‘Glenn, she won’t be  _ mad _ . She’s cool. She’ll probably think I’m like a movie man.’ Ron paused, ‘And you, but in a less hot way, obviously.’

Nick looked between them with an air of forced noncommittedness. He waited for Glenn to speak.

‘Yeah, alright. Can’t think of a better option.’

‘Sure, works for me.’ Nick echoed. Ron thought he saw him relax.

Samantha arrived what felt like mere minutes after Ron called her. She was wrapped in her warmest sweater with her hair all tucked up in a silky bonnet and she met them at the park gate looking utterly bewildered.

‘So, explain to me again what happened.’ She prompted.

‘We got in a little throwdown.’ Ron smirked, acting up the tough leading man. He just barely held back on calling her ‘sugar’. She looked a little too tired for names.

‘Why?’

‘They were cruisin’ for a bruisin’, basically.’ He explained.

Samantha turned her gaze to Glenn and Nick, standing sheepishly behind Ron. She raised her eyebrow. Glenn threw his hands up defensively before Nick cut him off.

‘Some assholes started it, alright. We just finished it.’ He muttered.

Ron frowned. That wasn’t exactly true. The fight hadn’t actually involved Nick, and they had ‘finished’ it by running away. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t mind Nick making himself a hero as long as he still got to be a hero too.

‘Yeah, they didn’t stand a chance!’ Ron grinned through the driver’s window, ‘They were like  _ whuh!  _ And I was like  _ pow!  _ You should’ve seen it, babe.’

Samantha smiled.

‘Alright, well you all better get in. Glenn, you’re gonna have to direct me.’ 

The strange excitement of everything that had just happened faded into reality in the familiar setting of Samantha’s old yellow sedan. The Close boys took the keyboard across their laps with a surprisingly low amount of complaining and Samantha chuckled good-naturedly down the highway as all three of them recounted their exploits.

‘You’re a good boy, Nick.’ She smiled in the rear view at the boy’s half-asleep form, slumped against his own knees instead of leaning on his dad, ‘Don’t let these hooligans corrupt you.’

‘Nick doesn’t let anyone tell him what to do.’ Glenn grinned in response, ‘Right Nick? Tell her.’

‘Mmhmm. Totally.’

‘That’s my boy.’

The drive back to their neighborhood was largely uneventful, and Ron watched his bandmates walk up their drive with a kind of deja vu. The last time he’d sat back and watched them leave with this bruised kind of tiredness he’d been with the other dads. He’d been minutes away from seeing Samantha for the first time in months. He’d missed her so much.

‘I love you.’ He told her now, flooded with the memory of how it felt to be separated.

She turned to him as the car pulled back onto the road, her eyebrows peaked pointedly.

‘Are you just saying that so I won’t say anything about you going out getting into fights?’

‘No, I just remembered.’

‘Oh, that’s nice.’

‘No, I didn’t- I didn’t  _ forget _ , I just remembered extra hard.’

Samantha drove in silence for a few moments. Her expression flitted a few times but never committed.

‘I’m not gonna lie, Ronnie, I’ve been feeling a little forgotten lately.’

The words punched Ron in the stomach. 

‘But-’ He floundered, ‘I didn’t forget about you! I wrote a song about you, listen-’

‘I don’t want a song.’ Samantha cut him off, ‘I want my husband. And Terry Jr needs his stepdad, you were making so much headway and then-’

She didn’t snap, she wasn’t angry, she was just...sad. 

‘I’m glad you have a new hobby, but I wish you wouldn’t let everything else fall by the wayside is all.’

Ron was silent. He couldn’t think of any words to put to all the thoughts and feelings that were coming out of the woodwork right now. Samantha didn’t force him, just pulled silently into their driveway. She pulled the keys from the ignition, fiddling with a big fuzzy keychain, but made no move to get out of the car.

‘Hey,’ Ron ventured, his voice hoarse, ‘I’m sorry.’

There was a pause. Keys jingled. It was getting pretty cold.

‘For what?’

‘For making you feel forgotten about. Nobody should make you feel that way.’ He stared at his knees, bare and awkward. What he wouldn’t give for a few pairs of pants. ‘And for never being home and for getting in a fight and for waking you up in the middle of the night as well.’

There was probably more. Ron raced through his mind, desperate to absolve himself of anything that would make his wife hear him express his love and assume he was just covering his own ass. Then he heard the click of a seatbelt and felt a soft weight on his shoulder as Samantha’s head nestled in next to his.

‘We both struggle sometimes with planning new stuff into our routines, I get that.’ She sighed, ‘And I know you love your friends, but, and I don’t know how else to say this, the Closes don’t  _ have _ any other responsibilities. They have each other and that’s wonderful, but that’s their life, not yours.’

Ron was quiet for a moment, just thinking for what felt like the first time in a while. 

He had superimposed himself into Glenn’s life because his own life had changed and he didn’t know how to deal with it. He’d hopped almost seamlessly from one life to the next, tried to abandon his own mistakes, he’d done it before. But it wasn’t seamless anymore. He couldn’t desert his life without deserting his family. 

And he couldn’t be Glenn, either. And maybe he didn’t want to be.

‘Wow, you’re right.’ He whispered, ‘You’re so smart.’

‘Hmm?’

‘I’m gonna make an effort, Samantha, I’m not gonna make you feel like that again,’ He promised, a new determination in his chest, ‘I’m gonna… step up.’

Samantha chuckled.

‘Okay, honey. Come on, let’s go to bed.’


End file.
